


Weak Blood

by SwampSpirit



Category: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: CFSWF, Epilepsy, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:57:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11413563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwampSpirit/pseuds/SwampSpirit
Summary: "When the fits stopped, he'd try harder. He wouldn't hold his brother back anymore. He would use this as inspiration to push himself, to be a credit to the Kholin name."





	Weak Blood

_ Serious suicidal idealization warning, especially for people with disabilities. It also features seizures being mistaken for possession, something that has happened far too much through history. Also a bit on institutionalization, doctors, and religious issues. _

_ This is not a fic where the individual or the society handles disability in an ideal way. I have more notes on epilepsy at the end and none of Renarin's internalized issues in this fic reflect my actual views on disability, gender, religion, ect. _

_ Also, thank you to Kogiopsis and FeatherWriter for editing. Any correct grammar in this fic is wholly thanks to them. _

 

Adolin rode slowly so Renarin could keep up. It wasn't that Renarin was bad with horses, but it came naturally to Adolin in the way so many things did. Perhaps when he was fourteen, he'd be as good as Adolin, but he doubted four years would be enough time to close the gap in their skill.

Still, he liked riding. He liked the way the horse felt like part of him, the comfort and speed and power. He liked exploring the land with Adolin and watching the clouds roll in.

When they looped by the stables for water a nervous stable hand ran up.  Renarin's heart sank.

“What is it?” Adolin asked, brushing his hair back in a way only Renarin knew he practiced.

“Should your brother be riding?”

“Is there a reason he shouldn't?” Adolin rode forward, between Renarin and the stable hand.

“I feel fine,” Renarin added and the woman finally looked to him, wringing her hands.

“Prince, please imagine what would happen if you had a fit up there.”

Of course he had. He was always picturing them. One of his gentler fits wouldn't be so bad. Adolin might notice in time to ride alongside. The world would shrink down until he floated on a dream. He would get that odd feeling like acrid smoke in the back of his throat. How would the fit make him act? Would he urge the horse forward with no heed to safety? Would he even manage to stay in the saddle?

But there were bad fits too. He never remembered anything from those, but he'd heard others describe it. His spine arching, jerking to the side and falling from the horse. The horse spooking, flailing hooves, Adolin trying to pull him to safety.

He wanted to explain how it helped to ride, how it centered him. There had to be a way. Perhaps they could strap him to the horse? But the stable-hand seemed afraid. She was darkeyed. If he fell while she was on watch...

There were many kinds of princely duties. Besides, it was just until the physicians found out the problem. He was going to Kharbranth soon. Just until then.

He stepped down into the mud and took his time putting away the tack and brushing down his horse. After that, he climbed onto the fence to watch Adolin. What else could he do? With his fits, he wasn't allowed near most of the masculine arts. Sword practice had stopped when Adolin hadn't noticed a fit and hit him across the jaw. His etiquette was abysmal long before the fits. As for isolating himself with maps or some similar diversion, he couldn't imagine. If his family saw him as any less of a man, they'd start saying his dinner was too spicy for him.

And there was so much that ‘wasn't for a prince’. He couldn't help muck out the stables or clean the house. He couldn't join the cooks or wander the countryside alone. He was just supposed to sit there. If he stared at the wall, he was told he was rude and ignoring the guests, but if he looked at them, he was creepy. He couldn’t even do nothing right.

He watched Adolin ride, wind rushing through his hair, laughing. It was hard not to wish Adolin was the sick one sometimes. But Adolin wouldn't lean on the gate feeling sorry for himself. He would be doing the frivolous things Father hated - shopping for clothes, talking with girls. And everybody would look at Renarin and whisper 'Why couldn't it have been him?'.

For now, he would settle with going over sword forms in his head. When the fits stopped, he'd try harder. He wouldn't hold his brother back anymore. He would use this as inspiration to push himself, to be a credit to the Kholin name.

 

The physician pressed fingers under Renarin's jaw and Renarin stiffened, forcing himself not to pull away.

Being sick meant your body didn't belong to you anymore. First it had been the fits. Laying on the ground and not understanding how he got there, wetting himself, avoiding stairs and horses and balconies. Then the rumors - those had always followed him. Nobody meant for him to hear, but people just seemed to talk without noticing he was there. Something about him just made people uncomfortable. He didn't understand why. If he did, he would have changed it. They whispered about him, especially once the fits started. They talked about Voidbringers, about evil spren inside of him, about curses and dead kings. There were other rumors that perhaps the less favored son had finally found a way to get attention. Those hurt more, but thankfully Adolin never heard them. Adolin was steadfast in his defense of his brother and had earned bruises proving it.

When the fits became regular, he'd been taken to the ardents. They didn’t bother to whisper. Voidbringers were now a theory, not a rumor. There were days where he couldn't see his family, dark rooms with dim spherelight, long conversations where harmless words would be received with serious looks and long notes.

Now it was the physicians, one after another. They talked like he wasn't in the room, stripped him down, and scribbled more notes. They weren't even  _ disinterested _ . It was a dry medical interest, like his entire existence was an exciting puzzle to solve.

“I'm going to try and trigger a fit,” the physician told Father. “If this works, we should have a good idea of what's going on.”

“I think he has enough of those,” Dalinar said, but Renarin shook his head.

“It's okay, Father.” He didn't want to have a fit, but there was nothing worse than not knowing. If it helped, it would be fine. He was already sitting and the bed was wide and soft.

“You have a very brave son,” the physician said. Renarin ignored it. Father went into battle, did real brave things. He'd know the physician was lying.

The man held a simple fabrial in front of Renarin which began to flash. He felt like somebody had dunked him into cold crem, like all his organs had decided to leap into his throat, like the world was ending, and then it did, for a bit.

 

He woke feeling better than he usually did after the worst fits, though everything felt sore and stiff and he'd bitten his cheek. They gave him time to clear his mind before talking.

“I know this is distressing to watch, but I believe it confirms my theory,” the physician said to Dalinar as Renarin sipped warm tea. “I believe your son is having seizures.”

“And that means?”

Dalinar stood like he was taking news from a war council. Renarin sat between, skinny limbs and bruises showing where the blanket didn't cover them.

“As far as we understand, it comes from some problem of the mind. To be clear, it's not a form of madness. The prince most likely has a disease called epilepsy. It appears that rather than one's thoughts and body being under the mind's control, the mind moves almost at random, impairing thought and jerking the muscles.”

Renarin nodded and his shoulders slumped in relief. There was a word. Not Voidbringers. Not some stubborn part of him trying to cause trouble. It was a thing of fact.

“So what do we do?” Dalinar asked.

“Good sleep, fresh air, fatty foods, and regular visits to a physician. There are local treatments, but none that are widely agreed to help.”

“And that will fix it?”

The physician looked uncomfortable and Renarin felt a bit of guilt. Nobody liked giving Dalinar bad news. Then there was a creeping numb horror as he realized that look probably meant more for him. He felt like he might have another fit.

“Highprince, I am afraid there is only so much that can be done for fits. They are not something we can simply force to go away, though they can fade with time.”

No promises.

“How often? When?” Dalinar's voice was hard.

“We aren't sure. The good news is that he seems otherwise healthy. As long as you take precautions against falls, he should have a long, happy life.”

No more riding. They would never let him go into battle.

“And if I see another doctor, he'll say the same? That all I can do is tell him to rest?”

More fits. More shame. Shame for his whole family.

They kept talking, both their voices hard. Renarin looked at his hands. He felt cold, starting with his fingers right into his ribs. He memorized the words. He learned to name the thing that stole his mind and body.

“Renarin. Renarin, are you having a fit?”

His mouth was frozen. He shook his head.

“Renarin, you are my son. You are strong. You will make it through this.”

He nodded, automatically.

He was a Kholin. He knew it by the storm in his chest, that well of fury.

He swallowed it down before it could rip him apart and went to find a shirt.

 

He tried to avoid the ardents on the Shattered Plains. For one, if he was seen with them, his father would start trying to convince him to join again. When he looked at them, he didn’t think of the almighty. He thought of tiny dark rooms where all he had to look forward to was sleeping.

But he had so many questions, and he needed to talk to somebody. He spoke to Adolin some, but at the wrong words his brother's face would drop, his eyes shining with concern. Adolin was so kind. He seemed to genuinely like Renarin's company, despite everything. He couldn't bear to give Adolin another reason to look at him like that. He needed to understand, or at least speak the thoughts out loud before they ate him.

“The Almighty puts us in the life we are meant for, yes?” he asked, sitting across from an older Ardent, looking at the patterns in the dirt.

“Yes.” The ardent was on comfortable ground here. Renarin wanted to start with the easy things.

“Did my father offend him?”

He had planned this conversation so many times, but now that he said it, he realized how awkward a question this was for the Ardent. He could hardly speak ill of the man who owned him.

“Prince, I'm not sure I understand.”

Renarin turned over his explanation in his head. It was the only thing that made sense, and he explained it to the ardent with calm reason.

“The Almighty must have given me this body, this mind for a reason. He chose to make me my father's son. But I cannot serve as a son. I am useless as a prince. So perhaps I am a lesson. Perhaps a punishment for some wrong my father did. Or to teach my brother a lesson.”

What other explanation was there? His father and brother went to war, and he hoped they came back and that he didn't embarrass the family too badly. He was a decoration too sentimental to remove but too ugly to look at, and everybody tried to politely shuffle him off to the ardentia where they wouldn't have to be reminded of him. His father barely spoke to him. It wasn't intentional. Dalinar was just... focused. He ran his fingers along the hem of his coat where the embroidery was fine and silky.

“Perhaps he meant the lesson for you,” the Ardent said. He seemed nervous, though not theologically. Just the kind of nervous everyone seemed to get when Renarin spoke the worst of his thoughts. “Could it be he wanted to guide you to a different path? To discover other strengths?”

“No.”

How did he express it? The isolation. It felt like something in him was screaming. A different path wouldn't quiet it. He didn't want it. And hadn't the Almighty sent him that heart? Hadn't the Almighty given him that storm inside? So why a body to frail to hold it?

The Almighty had gifted Adolin their mother's looks and presence, her way with others. He had been given their father's gifts for warfare, his bravery. What had Renarin been given? The leftover scraps?

If there was a plan, he was a tragic footnote. If there wasn't... then this was all there was.

“Prince, the Almighty gave us our gifts for how we might live, not so we might die. It's true we all must use our gifts to serve not just ourselves, but the world, but I can hardly believe to Almighty made you a prince simply to cause your father pain. Your father is a great man, and you will be a great son.”

Renarin nodded and thanked the ardent. He should have known that the man was not in a position to speak honestly. The words only confirmed it. He would serve this kingdom in the way so many did, as an inspiration to greater men.

He was meant to die. He felt it. It would take him, sure as the storms.

  
  


_ Epilepsy notes – I am not epileptic, but tried my best to handle it realistically. Since Renarin going still or repeating motions has been mistaken for seizures in canon, I guessed he mostly has partial seizures, but since he's diagnosed in a society that wouldn't have a clear understanding of seizures or CT scans, he probably has had some more visually dramatic seizures, so I wrote him as having simple partial seizures with occasional tonic clonic seizures. _

_ I thought it was important to note that many people do continue hobbies with uncontrolled epilepsy (ie – epilepsy still causing seizures) one might not expect, including riding, feeling the risk is well worth the comfort and joy riding brings their life. Using helmets and learning tricks for safe riding can't guarantee safety for any rider, especially when other risk factors are present, but eliminating activities in the name of safety can do far more harm than the actual disability. _

_ This isn't meant to be a message fic, I just wanted to make it clear it also isn't a fic about the inherent tragedy of disability. Many people live full, exciting lives while dealing with debilitating conditions. That said, it is very common to feel as if your disability has barred you from everything that makes life worth living. Facing a disability is a process of grief, and learning to build a life with value and meaning is a hard, terrifying, wonderful process, one I hope Renarin gets to experience as the series goes on. _

_ For those of you not struggling with health, please support those in your life who are and help them access and enjoy all the wonderful things they still can do. For those who are, I hope all the losses that feel like the end of the world pale in comparison to the amazing things you do. _

 


End file.
